


The Clockwork Days

by redwinehouse



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Doomsday, Fluff, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Snake!Crowley - Freeform, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21565222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redwinehouse/pseuds/redwinehouse
Summary: “Come inside,” Anathema pulled the two in by their lapels.The inside of the cottage was dark, except for the hundred or so candles that filled the kitchen. Light flickered on the walls, making the room twist and turn.“Oh, I like this,” Crowley murmured.___In which there is a Fourth Beast that will bring about Armageddon and neither Crowley or Aziraphale are prepared. Of course, feelings make things more complicated.[Will be re-written and improved]
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ao3 wasn't properly updating this story so I'll be reposting it. My apologies.
> 
> This is a mix of book and TV canon. Please enjoy from the bottom of my heart.

**Sunday**

It is said that creation implies a creator. A pocket watch hanging from an angel’s waistcoat doesn’t come into being but is designed by a highly skilled Venetian merchant with a glass eye. And like a watch, the world runs on a complicated mechanism that needs to be reset after six thousand years. But seeing as a Divine Creator has no use for time, the idea is quite silly. What is most uncomfortable about the theory is the implication that God does not care for you.

The world did tick on, as did the watch on the demon Crowley’s wrist. 

“I don’t like this.”

“They do seem to follow you wherever you go.”

“Even to Carnaby Street?” The glowing neon of Queen’s insignia reflected off of Crowley’s sunglasses. 

“Come on,” Aziraphale said. “There’s a lovely cafe down the way and I think a table’s just opened up.”

It had been two months since the world almost ended and a month since the demon and angel stopped looking over their shoulders. Crowley had slept for two weeks after their lunch at the Ritz and for the first time, Aziraphale was selling books.

“The shop’s nearly empty,” Aziraphale said as they settled for a window seat in the tiny cafe. “I can finally re-stock.”

“Didn’t like having a shop filled with children’s books?” Crowley signaled for the waiter.

“It’s not that I don’t _like_ children’s books. Every book has its value. They’re just...not to my taste.”

“Yeah. Right.” Crowley glanced at the menu before blindly tapping his finger against the glossy leaflet. Whatever he ordered, it would be a Chateau Margaux, 1787 when it got to the table.

Aziraphale sat back in his seat and folded his hands on the table. He smiled. “How are you?”

Crowley watched as the waiter poured the two-hundred-year-old wine. Bringing the glass to his lips, he slithered his forked tongue over the rim. It was at this point the waiter made a hasty exit. If anyone were to ask if he had seen a man with a serpentine tongue, he would only laugh nervously.

“We’ve avoided the apocalypse and I’m having dinner with my only friend. I’d say I’m doing okay, angel.”

“To friendship, then.” Aziraphale looked chuffed as he raised his glass.

Crowley hesitated.

“What is it?”

“Well, you’ve spent the last six thousand years making it very clear we weren’t friends. I’m...processing.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale began to rearrange his silverware. “I was being a bit silly. And seeing how things have changed, now that we’re off the leash so to speak, I don’t see the harm in admitting—”

“To friendship.” 

Aziraphale relaxed and clinked his glass.

* * *

Aziraphale’s tongue felt thick in his mouth. “I’m just saying that - that most religions agree that God is omnipotent.”

“Smarmy bastard,” Crowley slurred into his wine glass. 

“Crowley!” Champagne dribbled down the front of Aziraphale’s waistcoat, but the angel was too drunk to care. “That’s blasphemy!” 

“Bless it. I’m a demon, what do I care?”

Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed. “I suppose you’re right. What was I saying?”

“God.”

“Oh, right! Now, you and I know that God is omnipotent and all-powerful. But that begs the question: can God make a rock so big that even He can’t move it?”

Crowley looked as if something had been put into his wine. “ _What?_ ”

“If God is so powerful, can he create something even beyond himself?” Aziraphale tried to top off his drink but missed, shattering his glass. Before the champaign could soak into the tablecloth, Crowley snapped his fingers and the flute rematerialized.

“Thank you.”

“Out of all the things God could do, why would He want to do that?” The edge of Crowley’s lip curled. 

“Smarmy,” Aziraphale all but peeped as Crowley leaned across the table, jaw unhinged in laughter. 

“Aziraphale, your wings...”

Aziraphale glimpsed over his shoulder; white plumage cascaded from his shoulders and onto the floor. “Oh dear,” he giggled before sending them into the ethereal plane. 

There was a buzz and Crowley pulled a paper-thin phone from his pocket. “Hallo? Of course he’s with me. Where else would he be?” Crowley sat back in his chair as he listened. His mouth cut into a grim line. “Yeah, right.” He hung up. “We have to go.”

“What’s going on?”

“Bicycle Girl’s in a bit of a pickle. I’m going to sober up.” Crowley’s voice had lost its murky haze.

“Yes. Good idea.” 

Every stage of a hangover racked through Aziraphale’s body in a matter of seconds. Goosebumps flecked his skin and his stomach rolled. Just as the cafe’s lights became too bright and his head felt like it was going to split open, everything clicked back into place. 

“She’s not hurt, is she?” Aziraphale asked as they strode out into the night. 

“No, just very long-winded.” 

They slid into the Bently and Crowley peeled away from the curb, leaving nothing but tire tracks and a miraculously free meal in their wake.

“Did she say what was wrong?” Aziraphale asked, white-knuckling his door handle. 

“She had a bad dream. Hold on a tick.” Crowley ducked beneath Aziraphale’s legs and the angel barked, still not used to the self-driving car. The clutch shot to fifth gear.

Crowley resurfaced and smashed a disk into the CD player. Igor Stravinsky’s _The Firebird_ filled the car.

“This is lovely.”

“It’s about possession.”

“Oh.”

The frantic scattering of violins and flutes slowed as if it were melting on a hot day until they finally congealed into a two-pitch D and A baseline. 

Crowley smacked his wheel. “Bless it! Bless it! Bless it! What’s the date?”

“I believe it’s October the eighteenth.”

“Bless it!”

_Pressure! Pushing down on me, pressing down on you, no man ask for_

Crowley sighed and turned the volume up on Igor Stravinsky’s _Under Pressure_.

* * *

There are few things a young boy loves more than the town he grew up in. As Aziraphale stepped out into the brisk evening, he could feel the undercurrent of love swell in his chest. It hung in the air in a low vibrancy; everything felt fresher and more alive in the sleepy hills of Tadfield.

“I never appreciated how beautiful it was.”

Crowley slammed the Bently’s car door closed. “Yeah. The lair of the Antichrist is the pinnacle of country chic.” 

“You know that part’s gone.” Before Aziraphale could tap his knuckles against the front door of Jasmine cottage, Anathema wrenched it open. Her long black hair, usually pulled back in a sleek half top-knot, cascaded down her shoulders in a disheveled heap. 

“Come inside,” she pulled the two in by their lapels.

The inside of the cottage was dark, except for the hundred or so candles that filled the kitchen. Light flickered on the walls, making the room twist and turn.

“Oh, I like this,” Crowley murmured. 

“Hi, guys.” Newt lifted a hand from the corner of the room. He was still in his pajamas, clearly pulled from bed. 

“Come, sit,” Anathema instructed, taking a seat at the kitchen table. In front of her was a black square painted with intricate white ruins. Four crystals sat on each corner.

“What is that?” Aziraphale asked as he scooted his chair forward.

“A witch’s pendulum.”

“Ah. Right.”

Anathema pulled at her fingers. “I had a dream. A prophetic one.” 

The thing about psychics or clairvoyants, in general, is that most of them are fake. A little boy will fall out a window and everyone will say, “There is no way that little boy could fall out a window and not be psychic.” And when Mrs. Lentz (the old lady down the lane) insists that the little boy can read her thoughts and he can’t, everyone will go home feeling rather silly.

“Are you sure this wasn’t just an ordinary dream?” Aziraphale knew that a little boy could not get psychic powers by falling out a window.

“Yes. But I had to know more, so I consulted the pendulum. I ask it questions and the answers come from within my subconscious. I just need to sift through it.” 

It is important to note that very few women burned at the stake were witches. Humans — not being a very smart bunch — had several ways of testing the witchiness of their accused:

  1. Tie her to a rock and throw her into a lake. If she lives, she’s a witch. 
  2. Ask a deaf woman if she’s a witch. If she doesn’t answer, she’s a witch.



Unfortunately, it is usually intelligent women who are accused of witchcraft. But as Anathema Device dangled a crystal over the ruins, her friends wondered if history had gotten it wrong.

“Am I with friends?” Anathema asked. The crystal swung to the left “It says yes. Did Adam Young bear the Mark of the Beast?” She nodded her head. “Will there be a Beast that is not from Earth, nor sea, nor rides a white horse? ...Yes”

Crowley slithered out of his perpetual slouch and the candle flames stilled. “What did you say?” 

Satisfied, Anathema tucked the crystal back into her pocket. She chose her next words carefully. “If my prophecy is to be correct — which it is — there is to be a Fourth Beast that will bring upon the apocalypse.”

Aziraphale broke into a smile that did not reach his eyes. “It’s only been three months.”

“That’s ridiculous. Tell your thing that’s ridiculous!” Crowley leaned forward. “That’s ridiculous!” he shouted into the ruins. 

“I just sold all my books,” Aziraphale whimpered.

“The Beast doesn’t care about your books, angel!”

Anathema turned to Crowley. “Would your people know about this?”

Crowley took his glasses off, pupils blown wide in the dim. “I don’t have people anymore.” 

From the corner, Newt spoke up. “Surely there’s somebody you can talk to. I was a temp at a dozen places and people hated me, but there’s always one person that will sit with you during lunch.”

“Demons don’t just go around _mingling_ — ” Crowley’s sat up. “Pazuzu. Angel, we have to go.”

“It was lovely to see you again.” Aziraphale inclined his head towards the human couple before trailing after Crowley. “Who’s Pazuzu?”

In 1970, the legendary British rock band Queen was formed. Three years later, the iconic supernatural horror film _The Exorcist_ hit theaters to monstrous success. One of these things is unfortunate because it painted a very bleak and inaccurate picture of a rather lovely demon.

“He’s become a bit of a depressant really. A shut-in. Truly nice fellow. Only one I would talk to down in Hell. The movie made him look like a real sod.” 

“No retching up pea soup - slow _down!_ ”

“Nothing like that. After us, he’s probably the oldest demon in existence. His main thing was bringing famine but he also protected women in childbirth. People don’t remember that part all things considered.”

“That’s awful.”

“Yup.” Crowley jerked the steering wheel, sending the Bently careening into a spin. The car slotted itself between two sedans, tipping over on its side wheels before crashing down. 

Crowley ducked back into the car. “You coming?”

“I-I need a moment.” 

Tints of pink and orange had begun to stretch across the sky as they entered Crowley’s flat. The fluorescent lights came on with a snap of the fingers. It made Aziraphale squint. 

Crowley’s living space was a contradiction because nobody lived in it. It was merely a place he went when he was bored. The space was cold, unforgiving, and devilishly modern with sharp lines and dark shadows. The only signs of life were the luscious green plants in the atrium and he had already bullied them into subservience. 

“All right,” Crowley said as he kicked aside his white throw carpet. He opened his mouth and his eye teeth stretched into points.

“What on Earth are you doing?” Aziraphale asked as he watched Crowley slash his finger open. 

Crowley swept his hand across the cold floor. “Hell certainly won’t let me go in through the front door. Gotta go in with style. Take these.” 

“Ice skates?”Crowley stepped back as the pentagram began to pulsate.

“I’d put those on if I were you.” The room filled with a scarlet light as Aziraphale fumbled to put on the skates. He hobbled into the circle just in time. They both disappeared with a _‘pop!’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This website has given me so much anxiety over this story. I hope you can find it this time.
> 
> Carnaby Street [did change its sign](https://www.creativemoment.co/look-up-to-the-skies-and-see-bohemian-rhapsody-installation-lights-up-londons-carnaby-street) to the Queen insignia last year in celebration of the release of "Bohemian Rhapsody," and I used that as an excuse to write a whole fanfiction.


	2. Chapter 2

**Monday**

It is said that the road to hell is paved with kindness. The Australian band ACDC believes it is a highway. They are both wrong. In reality, the road to Hell is paved with ice and traveling salesmen.

“Could I interest you in a handcrafted Persian rug?” A put-together man in a tie and overcoat presented Aziraphale with a lavishly printed carpet.

“I’m quite fine, thank you.”

“No, don’t talk to it!” Crowley swiped a snakeskin boot across the salesman's ankles and he went tumbling, disappearing into a cloud of inky black smoke. “Come on, before they corner us!”

Crowley was in a foul mood. He had avoided winter sports since The Incident of 1890, where a day of heavy snow and an occupied lavatory left him snowshoeing through St. James Park. Snowshoes were an indecent and embarrassing invention, one of his own design. When Hell adopted the escalator in the 19th century, Crowley sent a prayer of thanks for the first time in six millennia. 

“I...er,” - Aziraphale wrang his hands - “I can’t skate.” 

“Well, neither can I. Just miracle yourself down the way!”

“You know I’m in the habit of frivolous miracles.” 

“ _You know I’m in the habit of frivolous miracles,_ ” Crowley parroted underneath his breath as he took Aziraphale’s hand. “Don’t let go. They once got Ligur and he was paying it off until he was a puddle on my floor.”

Structurally, the road to Hell was like any other road on a winter’s day, but unlike other roads, it hung in a black abyss. Those who traveled this road would take heed if he or she did not want to be bound by a soul-sucking contract that would last for all eternity. [Salesmen are the same wherever you go.]

Aziraphale gripped Crowley’s hand as he was dragged down the slippery path. He would have compared it to flying if it were it not for his legs, which were buckling like a newborn calf. 

“How would you like to be the owner of a slightly used above ground pool?”

“Only two days left until our hellfire sale ends!”

The salesmen seemed to melt out of the darkness. They shoved their identical brown suitcases at the demon and angel, flipping open the latches to show their wears. Like the best of traveling salesmen, they were driven by confidence, persistence, and blood. 

“Move it!” Crowley careened through a cluster of salesmen and the world turned upside down. 

Every few years Hell had to go through a complete redesign. Hey, Crowley would say as he sauntered into one of their medieval torture pits, now they have this thing called the HMRC. So they would scrap the whole thing and start over. The term “corporate hell” wasn’t thought up by a lowly intern but a demon who thought it would be funny to have you work holidays. 

Fluorescent lights hung low from the ceiling. A fly pelted itself against the glass. There was a shout as Aziraphale and Crowley landed hard against a cluster of file cabinets. 

Crowley blindly reached for his glasses. “You all right?”

“I think so,” Aziraphale panted, patting himself down for injuries. “You?”

“Never been better.” They were a tangle of limbs, compressed in a room far too small. 

Aziraphale peeled his cheek from the wall as they both wriggled to their feet. “They have cupboards in Hell?”

Crowley looked around the small room and scowled. “Ngk. Yuck.” The above lights flickered as if offended by Crowley’s distaste. “I was shooting for accounting.”

“Your friend’s an accountant? How lovely.”

“Not a friend, an acquaintance. And it’s not lovely. It’s an eternal existence of monotony — just the way he likes it.” He looked at Aziraphale. “You can’t go out there like that.”

Aziraphale stuck his nose in the air. “I think I look like a gentleman.” 

“You think a demon has ever worn this?” He tugged on the angel’s bowtie.

Well, demons hadn’t worn _anything_ the first few thousand years they existed. They were invisible, more of the paranoid feeling you got when you didn’t lock the lavatory door. This lead to a lot of bumping and fumbling until Lord Beealzabub finally granted them humans vessels; none of whom wore anything like Aziraphale’s bowtie. 

“I suppose not. Fine. If I could impersonate you I don’t see why I couldn’t pass for your average demon.”

“Am I above average, then?”

“Just change me! I don’t like it down here!”

“Might feel a bit tingly,” Crowley warned as he passed his palm down Aziraphale’s face. 

“Oh,” was the last thing Aziraphale said before his pupils expanded past the whites of his eyes. His blonde hair rustled as a horde of silverfish scuttled across his forehead. His spotless three-piece suit became dank with mildew.

“None of it’s real,” Crowley babbled when his friend looked like he was about to cry. “Look.” He miracled a pocket mirror and held it up.

Aziraphale’s blue eyes stared back at him. He touched his face before aiming a shaky smiley at Crowley. “I see. Of course.”

Crowley was almost eye-level with Aziraphale. “Don’t say anything. If we run into anyone, leave the talking to me. You sound funny.”

Previous fright forgotten, Aziraphale straightened. “Of course I do, I’m an angel. I don’t belong here.”

Crowley’s face shimmered into something uncanny and a cluster of maggots spilled from his ear. “Leave the skates.”

He slinked out into the hallway, motioning for Aziraphale when he was sure the coast was clear. He gagged, nose wrinkling. Crowley had never liked Hell, where a decent drink was impossible and the cell service was spotty at best. Now that he had gone rogue, the walls had gotten smaller and the smell of brimstone had worsened. 

“How much further?”

“Just around the corner. And stop whispering. You have to look normal.” 

They reached a door emblazoned with a plaque:

**DEMON PAZUZU**

**KING OF WIND & FAMINE**

**INTERNAL AUDIT MANAGER**

**PROCESS/OPERATIONS ETC.**

Crowley held up a finger. “Do not mention the movie. He hates that.” He knocked.

“You may enter.” They opened the door.

Crowley’s sunglasses went flying from his face as a burst of hot air exploded from the room. A whirlwind of papers and memos swirled around in a violent tornado, tearing across the floor. It picked up office supplies in its wake, hurling staplers and pencils against the walls. 

“It’s me!” Crowley shouted, struggling to hold onto the doorknob.

The papers dropped and the room went silent. Stuffed behind a scuffed metal desk was a honey skinned demon. His yellow eyes were bloodshot and tired. The gecko on his head gurgled.

“Crowley,” the demon croaked. Sand tumbled from his hair. 

“Pazuzu!” Crowley opened his arms, mouth stretching into a charming smile. “How’s it going?”

Chair legs screeched across the linoleum floor as Pazuzu got to his feet. The Demon was dressed in brown tattered robes and gold finery. He reeked of ancient magic. “I haven’t seen you in two hundred years.”

“Been a bit busy spreading sin. Saw Skyfall seven times.”

“Sit down.” Two chairs appeared in front of Pazuzu’s desk. 

“My friend and I heard something that one of you lot might know more about. Thought we’d run it by you since I’m neither here nor there.” Crowley explained as he and Aziraphale took their seats.

“I see.” Pazuzu sank back into his chair and tapped his fingers against the keyboard. Sand began to pool at his ankles as he scrolled through Hell’s backlog. He sighed, making the chairs buck.

“What are you looking for?” 

“Something about a Beast, end of the world maybe?” Crowley managed when everything came to a still.

A dry rasp rattled in Pazuzu’s chest and the demon and angel reflexively grabbed the desk. 

Pazuzu turned back to the computer. “One Beast released in the Beginning.” 

“Oh no,” Aziraphale’s face had lost its color.

“Bugger.”

There had been a time when Crowley had been in favor of Armageddon. Hell had spat him up and said do you worst Crowley and he had said all right, but then humans became so good at being awful to each other. Along the way, he had picked up an angel, the only other being that understood what it was like to be an immortal on Earth.

You know — Crowley had said one day as he tossed a bit of bread at a particularly nasty swan — we’re a bit like The Beatles.

The Beatles?

John Lennon told me that they were so close because they went through something nobody could ever understand. We’ve been on this Earth longer than any other living thing with no one else to talk to.

Aziraphale tipped his head. Is that why you got that awful haircut?

I’m being sensitive!

I know, my dear. The two linked arms as they continued to feed the ducks.

“How do we stop it?” 

The gecko clambered down from its perch, kicking up a cloud of fine sand. It scuttled down Pazuzu’s arm and the demon brought it before his yellow eyes. “You kill The Beast.”

* * *

  
  


“He was very nice for a demon. I wonder why you’ve never talked about him before.”

“Never came up.”

Aziraphale had been blabbering on for five minutes. It was an awful inconvenience for Crowley, whose memory of Hell’s endless hallways had blurred into an unhelpful goo in the back of his brain. 

“I assumed you would have told me if you had another friend.”

Crowley sidestepped a cockroach “You’ve never seen a demon cry in its true form. You need to go on holiday for that.” He looked up and found himself face to face with a pair of black eyes. “Berith, how’s it going?”

The demon scowled. “I recognize you.”

“Of course you do. We see each other all the time, pulling out tongues and all that.” 

“Crowley, isn’t it?” 

“Better the devil you know than the devil you don't,” is an old Irish proverb. It means that it is better to deal with something bad that you know than with something new. Whoever came up with the saying clearly didn’t know any devils. 

“Listen, you heard about what happened at the trial. You don’t want to cross me,” Crowley warned.

“Do you think I believe any of that nonsense? Is that the angel?”

“Hallo.” Aziraphale greeted. He was still an angel, after all.

“The condemnation I’d get for turning you in. They’d probably give me a promotion.” Berith grabbed Crowley by the lapels of his jacket. The motion caused a piece of paper to flutter from Crowley’s pocket. The demons watched as it slid onto the floor. They looked at each other. They looked at the paper.

They both lunged.

“Now would could this be you slippery snake?” Berith unfolded the paper.

“It’s my release forms. No use to you unless you have a certain affinity for files.”

“You lie. It’s the contract that bound your soul to the underworld.”

Traditionally, fallen angels are cast down to hell in chains of darkness. This isn’t that bad considering the paperwork afterward. Once your soul is signed over to the Devil, you became a proper demon. But after the trial, Crowley’s contract had been wiped clean. 

“I own you, Anthony J. Crowley,” Berith said and he traced his signature onto the paper. The letters burned and crackled.

Crowley’s reaction surprised even Aziraphale. “Hope you like encyclopedias!” he jeered. 

The ink on the contract spiraled and contorted as the contract flew out of Berith’s hand. It hovered in front of his face before a thin line cut through the middle of the page. A pair of feet squeezed through the seam, then legs, and then a whole body.

The traveling salesman straightened his jacket. “Please enjoy your lifetime supply of men’s razors!”

There were more feet and more bodies as more salesmen shot out of the piece of paper.

“Please enjoy your lifetime supply of patent leather shoes!”

“Please enjoy these gold inlay dictionaries, half off!” 

“These Persian carpets are now yours!”

“I’ll get you, Crowley!” Berith wailed before he was wrapped in a dozen carpets and sucked into the floor.

“Ciao,” Crowley said, scuffing his boot where the demon had just been.

Aziraphale stared up at Crowley, a little baffled. “What was that?”

“Ligur left it at my flat after his holy bath. It was a non-refundable contract for The Jam of the Month Club. Thought it might come in handy.”

“He didn’t strike me as the type.”

“You’re telling me. Let’s boogie.”

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


The drive back to A.Z. Fell and Co. was a quiet one.

“What do you think is going to happen?”

“Hm?” Crowley hadn’t taken his eyes off the road.

“I mean” — Aziraphale shifted in his seat — “do you think it’s all going to work itself out again?”

“I don’t know. But at least you’re talking to me. That’s something.”

The corner of Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled. “Yes. Yes, it is.” He handed Crowley his sunglasses.


	3. Chapter 3

**Tuesday**   
  


A.Z. Fell and Co. was a bookshop nestled in Soho, although it wasn’t really a bookshop as its owner went to almost any length to keep customers at bay. Aziraphale never kept regular hours and had allowed the grime on the windows to settle a quarter-inch thick. So when Crowley slithered underneath the skylight to sunbathe, he couldn’t have been more thrilled.

A chill woke the slumbering serpent. The patch of sun Crowley had coiled himself under had stretched across the floor. He flicked out his tongue, hoping to find Aziraphale. [The angel refused to keep the bookshop at an acceptable temperature, claiming it was for book preservation. Crowley said it was because he was annoying.] Instead, he found a stranger. The boy wandered through the stacks, mindlessly plucking books from their shelves, scratching his head as he struggled to read their faded titles. 

_Can’t have that._

Crowley poked his head down just as the boy turned. He opened his mouth, revealing two rows of long fangs. He hissed. The color drained from the boy’s cheeks and he screamed, stumbling out of the shop. The bell gave a jolly ring in his wake.

“Hallo, there,” Aziraphale greeted from his desk. “I can only assume you’re getting into trouble.”

“Scared off a customer.” Crowley slithered up the side of the desk. His voice was a little more breathy. “Don’t think he’ll be back anytime soon.” 

Aziraphale smiled. “Oh. Why thank you.” While he didn’t dislike Crowley’s snake form, it proved to be a hassle. “Please be careful.” He slid Crowley’s tail away with the tip of his pencil. “This book is very old. Must you go around looking like that?”

“It’s mid-October in London. I don’t like it any more than you do.” Crowley hovered in front of Aziraphale’s nose, eyes unblinking. 

“Of course.” The bookshop warmed three degrees. “But I can’t go any higher. The books will grow mold and I can’t miracle them away. They will lose value.”

“No one will know.”

“I will.”

“Yeah, fine. _Whatever_.” Crowley’s scales rasped against the mahogany as he slid across the tabletop and onto Aziraphale’s shoulders. “You asked for this.” 

The weight of the snake was heavy but not uncomfortable. Aziraphale gave Crowley an awkward pat. “Well, you can stay there as long as you like. Just be careful.” But his friend’s eyes had glossed over. He was asleep.

Aziraphale was careful not to wake Crowley as he adjusted his glasses. The Adultery Bible was one of his most treasured books, one he did not touch if he could help it, but Aziraphale had too many drinks while he was on Earth and his scripture had become fuzzy.

He turned to Revelation 11:7:

_And when they shall have finished their testimony, the beast that ascendeth out of the bottomless pit shall make war against them, and shall overcome them, and kill them._

Revelation 13:11-18:

_And I beheld another beast coming up out of the earth; and he had two horns like a lamb, and he spake as a dragon._

_And he exerciseth all the power of the first beast before him, and causeth the earth and them which dwell therein to worship the first beast, whose deadly wound was healed._

“Adam.”

“You say something, angel?” Crowley mumbled.

“Crowley, can The Fourth Beast be more powerful than the Antichrist?”

“I mean if it succeeds in bringing about the end of days. Adam sure mucked that up, didn’t he?”

“It’s just” — Aziraphale took his glasses off — “The Beast seems to gain its power from that which came before it.”

“So maybe Adam isn’t just human because he chose to be?”

“Precisely.”

This was awful. They had stopped Armageddon through sheer ineptitude and dumb luck; surely they couldn’t be expected to right the ship a second time? And he had gotten so lazy over the last six thousand years, always eating or puttering about with his books when he should have been helping humanity. And who gives a flaming sword away —?

A bop on Aziraphale’s nose brought him out of his spiral. 

“Are you even listening to me?”

Aziraphale looked away. “I seemed to have lost my train of thought.” 

“I said, do you want to watch The Golden Girls?”

It took all of his self-control not to throw his friend across the room. “How can you be thinking about TV at a time like this?”

“Well, if this is all part of the Great Plan, it should just work itself out. Thus...TV.”

“That doesn’t give us an excuse to do nothing. God teaches you how to fish for a reason.”

“I’m going to watch TV. You can come if you want.” Crowley detangled himself from Aziraphale and stretched skywards. His skin molded and shaped until…

He adjusted his sunglasses. “See you later.” 

“Wait.” Aziraphale already missed the weight on his shoulders. “Just for an hour.”

* * *

  
  


The flat was much warmer than the bookshop. Crowley had drawn back the curtains, casting out the usual dimness to soak in the afternoon sunshine. The pentagram was still on the floor, a testament to how little time Crowley actually spent here.

“This must have been expensive,” Aziraphale breathed. The only other time he had been in Crowley’s flat at length was when he had spent the night. It hadn’t exactly been a guided tour.

“I wouldn’t know.” Crowley wandered into the kitchen, curious if he still had that bottle of bourbon in the cupboard. Aziraphale watched as he produced two tumblers and an obscenely expensive bottle of whiskey. He slid Aziraphale his glass and he accepted it with a gracious smile. He hadn’t liked whiskey since he first shared a drink with Crowley in 1460, nor all the times after. 

“Your plants are beautiful.”

“Don’t’ spoil them.” Crowley took a drink. The rim of the glass nudged against his shades.

“Why don’t you change them? Your eyes, I mean? It must be dreadful to always wear those things.”

“I like them. They’re me. You don’t?”

“No!” Aziraphale said hastily. “I like them very much. May I?” He felt stupid but Crowley inclined his head, letting the angel slip the glasses off his nose. Crowley shook his head, his pupils contracting into slits under the bright kitchen lights. 

“There. Much better.”

Crowley settled against the counter. “Do you think our existence makes life boring?” For the first time in a long time, he blinked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean our very existence answers all of life’s most important and interesting questions: who are we; where do we come from; where are we going; _what’s the point_?” He gazed into the amber liquid swirling in his glass. “It’s all rather boring now, isn’t it?”

“Are you drunk?”

“No.” Perhaps Aziraphale wasn’t the only one cracking under the pressure.

“If you think about it, we really don’t know any more than the humans. Yes, there is a God and an afterlife, but neither of us have seen Him. Both The Ineffable and The Great Plan are inconceivable and I still don’t understand how He’s existed for all of eternity because _everything_ has a beginning. And even if God hasn’t always existed, what was before? Nothing? And what is nothing —” Aziraphale’s eyes met Crowley’s. “Am I real?”

Crowley was giggling. “Cheers, angel.” He raised his glass. 

For the third time in his life, Aziraphale swore. “Fuck it.” Their glasses touched and he swore Crowley’s eyes set afire at his obscenity. “I think that things can’t possibly be pointless or boring so long as you’re around.”

Crowley’s face had become sad, if not tender. “Aziraphale...” 

Pay attention or you might miss it.

In the Beginning, the angel of the Eastern Gate shielded Crawly from the rain. The principality didn’t realize that would set off a chain of events that each only knew the half of. Because on that day, Crawly fell for a second time. It would sound silly to most, falling in love with someone for something so ordinary, but for a demon who had never been shown kindness, the white wing over his head had been the start of something unheard of. 

“Shall we watch the program?” Aziraphale interrupted.

Crowley handed the case of books to Aziraphale amidst the rubble of the church. _Oh, he was in love._ Aziraphale’s inherent romantic was dampened by a crippling shyness and poor self-esteem. He had never sensed the same from Crowley, never accounting for the inherent trickiness of demons. 

Crowley’s slid his tongue over his teeth and the corner of his lip did something funny. Then he smiled. “You got it, angel.”

They settled on the white sofa. Aziraphale tucked himself into the corner, all right angles as Crowley sprawled next to him. 

“Do you even watch TV?” Crowley asked as he snaked an arm across the back of the couch. 

Aziraphale was troubled. If he slouched they would be touching but if he stood it would look as if he didn’t want to be there. Which, in a way, he didn’t. Aziraphale sat up straighter but the movement only made their knees brush. It would be an easy thing, to place his hand on Crowley’s knee. 

Aziraphale took the thought and tucked it in his pocket. They may be on their own side but he couldn’t dismantle six thousand years of friendship. 

“You made me watch Top Gear once.” 

“Oh, yeah.” 

Aziraphale chanced a glance to his left and gave himself a moment to admire Crowley. He was beautiful, even splayed across the couch. Aziraphale allowed himself to reminisce — to marvel at the fact that they were here, together. Somehow, they had survived the apocalypse and were allowed to exist. Although he was an angel, Aziraphale liked to indulge. He had been on Earth long enough to fall prey to human vices: cake, alcohol, sushi. Crowley was better than them all. He was the Serpent of Eden, the original temptation, and blissfully unaware of what he was doing to the angel. 

The intercom buzzed.

“Oh, thank God,” Aziraphale blurted.

Crowley slid his glasses on. He leaned passed Aziraphale, appraising the front of the flat. “I don’t even have a doorbell.” 

“Do you want me to come with you?”

Crowley motioned Aziraphale to sit. “No, no. They can’t catch us both.” He swaggered down the hallway and opened the door.

When a human is accosted by a traveling salesman, they traditionally slam their door. Demons stand irritably as one of their plants spontaneously combusts. 

“Not interesssssted,” Crowley hissed. 

The girl caught the door in her hand. She smiled from beneath her sunhat. “And God said, ‘Behold, I have given you every plant yielding seed that is on the face of all the earth and every tree with seed in its fruit. You shall have them for food.’”

Crowley lunged forward, boxing the girl between his hands and the wall. Behind him, the door slammed closed. 

“Which one of them sent you?” he sneered. “Because we won’t go quietly. You know Holy Water won’t work and I’ll be more than happy to have you swimming in a lifetime’s supply of peach preserves—”

“Crowley?”

Crowley looked over his shoulder and his Adam’s Apple got stuck in his throat. “Hey, angel.”

Aziraphale hovered in the doorway, fists clenched at his sides. “What the devil are you doing?” 

“She’s one of them!” Crowley’s grabbed the woman by the lapels of her dress as if the contact would make it true.

“Get out of the way!” Aziraphale pushed Crowley aside. He turned to the girl and the room filled with a calming angelic grace. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “He’s an idiot.” Behind him, Crowley snorted.

Salesman, being Satan’s most vile creatures, were not easily deterred by demonic forces. Aziraphale relaxed as the girl gave him a dreamy smile. She held out a leaflet.

“Just wanted to give you this.”

“Birchwood Farms,” Aziraphale read. “Organic produce. How lovely! Thank you.” 

“Have a blessed day.” The girl flitted out of the hallway.

“What a charming girl,” Aziraphale said, turning the brochure in his hand.

“Bloody creepy if you ask me.” Crowley stalked back into the flat.

Both Aziraphale and Crowley were right. Aziraphale, who said the girl had been “charming,” believed he was _absolutely_ right. Crowley, who wanted to get as much distance between him and the creepy stranger believed he was _certainly_ right. Crowley was _actually_ right; for the girl with the dreamy smile and sunhat is an example of foreshadowing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Wednesday**

Crowley was lounging on the couch, a glass of wine dangling from his fingers. He watched as the angel rummaged through the bookshop, muttering to himself.

“You could try Googling it.”

“I _did_ ,” Aziraphale huffed. His glasses were askew. “But the entire internet seems to have disappeared!”

Crowley, who was in tune with all things nefarious, was surprised. “What are you on about?”

“I tried to ask the little man about the Fourth Beast but he’s nowhere to be found!”

“Do you mean Ask Jeeves?”

“Yes!”

Crowley sputtered, quickly hiding it with a sip of wine. “Angel, that’s a search engine and it’s been shut down for _years_. Ten years, I think.” 

The only piece of technology Aziraphale owned was a clunky desktop he used for taxes and inquiries for the man in the dapper waistcoat. Until that moment, he had been quite proud of his mastery of modern technology.

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked far off as he sank down into the cushions. “I really liked him.”

“It wasn’t a good engine to begin with.” Crowley didn’t mention it was he who had infected the browser with malware. “Maybe we should ask the witch.”

Aziraphale brightened. “What a good idea.”

They were quiet.

“You know the heating in that place is a nightmare.”

“I’m sure she won’t mind.”

That’s how they found themselves in Anathema Device’s kitchen, with the kettle boiling and a plate of biscuits between friends.

“I really wish you hadn’t burned Agnes’ prophecies.” 

Anathema was staring at Aziraphale over the rim of her teacup. “I had a choice. I could either be a descendant for the rest of my life or live it.”

Aziraphale thumbed the ring on his little finger. “I’m very familiar with the pressures of servitude.” 

“Is he okay?”

“Who? Oh.” Aziraphale looked at the snake sleeping soundly on his shoulders. “He has trouble staying warm around the holidays.”

“That’s very nice of you.”

“Crowley’s my friend.”

“It’s just that most people don’t like snakes.”

“He’s not just a snake,” Aziraphale was feeling flustered. “He’s a _demon._ ”

“Most people don’t like demons.”

“ _I do."_ He blushed. "I’m sorry. That was very rude.”

“It wasn’t.” Anathema’s eyes were glued to Aziraphale's throat, where the tip of the snake’s tail curled.

* * *

  
  


Underneath Crowley’s belly, Aziraphale’s pulse was pounding. Angels didn’t need hearts but Aziraphale wanted things to hurt. He wanted to feel the romance of a beautiful poem...or something like that. Having a heart gave Crowley anxiety. For instance, his heart would be in his throat this very moment if he had allowed it to do whatever it pleased. 

“Sorry about that. What’d I miss?” Crowley snagged a biscuit.

“I was just saying that we don’t need Agnes’ prophecies to defeat the Fourth Beast.” Anathema had already busied herself in the kitchen, taking a third teacup from the cupboard. “Do you take sugar?”

“Dark and bitter, like me.” 

Supposedly, those who drink black tea are very direct. Drinkers also have a tendency to be productive, making its high caffeine content incredibly useful. Since Crowley knew none of this, this information is pointless.

“We wouldn’t have found Adam if it hadn’t been for one of her prophecies.” 

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Anathema said. “If Agnes has already prophesied them, wouldn’t they happen regardless?”

“What?” A spatter of crumbs flecked Crowley’s jacket.

“Was the fall of Oedipus foretold by the oracle, or was it pre-ordained because it was foretold?” Anathema said.

Aziraphale smiled. “I say.”

“ _What?_ ”

“We don’t need Agnes’ prophesies to set off events. She was able to see them because they are set points in time. Everything will still happen as it was told.”

“So you spent your entire life deciphering these prophecies for no reason?” Crowley waved his teacup in the air.

“They prepared me for what was coming.”

“Yeah, right,” Crowley muttered. He looked at Aziraphale. “This is essentially what I told you yesterday.”

“Yes, but she’s clever.”

They left with full bellies but no new information. Seeing as Aziraphale would do anything short of a crime than be bested by a lack of knowledge, he was feeling frustrated. Anathema had been his last hope and he was out of ideas. 

“Nice biscuits.” 

“I’m sorry.”

Crowley waved his hand and the Bently’s doors unlocked. “What are you talking about?” They got inside.

Aziraphale’s face contorted into genuine misery. “Inside I said that you weren’t clever and that was wrong of me. You’re the most clever person I know. For six thousand years you’ve gotten me out of trouble and it was a stupid thing to say and I’m sorry.” He chanced a look at Crowley. 

His hands were at the traditional position of 9 and 3, an odd thing since Crowley didn’t know how to drive. There were two stress lines between his eyebrows and his mouth was slightly open as if something was going to spill out.

If Crowley was anything, he was an optimist. 

He moved forward and his mouth was on Aziraphale’s. At first, Aziraphale thought he was mistaken because there was no way a demon could be kissing him so softly. Then it clicked into place.

“You tricky serpent!” Aziraphale pushed Crowley away.

“I —"

“No! Don’t say something funny or clever. I thought you were my friend but this whole time you were using your demonic wiles!” Aziraphale got out of the car before Crowley could reply.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley was hanging out of the Bently’s window.

Aziraphale tugged at the lapels of his jacket. “I don’t want to see you again,” he said. Then he was gone.

Crowley slid down his seat. Smoke began to rise between his fingers as the wheel beneath his hands burned, bubbling and snapping like an egg in a hot frying pan. A feral snarl ripped from his throat. With his teeth clenched so hard they could turn into dust, he gunned the Bently down the country lane. The stereo came on in a mess of static.

_This thing called love, I just can't handle it_

_This thing called love...crazy little thing called love._

* * *

  
  


The usual smells of old bookbinding and dust did nothing to calm Aziraphale as he materialized in the middle of his bookshop. He clutched his chest. Underneath his palm, his human heart was beating wildly. He was afraid if he let go it would shatter. Angels were expected to serve as intermediaries between God and humans. They were created with a blind servitude for the Almighty — but Aziraphale’s natural intelligence had always led him to question. Every decision, he rationalized, had to be made by weighing his options. When he had met Crowley in the Garden he had seemed like a nice fellow, curious about the nature of good and evil. He decided for a demon, he wasn’t that bad. 

The truth of the matter was that he identified with Crowley. Since the beginning, Heaven had ostracized him, called him fat. Crowley was the only one who accepted him. They both loved Earth and cared for humans, which was why the Arrangement came so naturally. Crowley had once said they were like The Beatles, bonded over something no one could ever understand. Without him, Aziraphale was alone.

He looked skyward. Perhaps it was time to go to the stars. 

A knock at the door brought him out of his spiral.

Aziraphale flipped over the OPEN sign. “I’m sorry, we’re closed.” There was a second knock and he tutted. Cracking open the door, he stuck his nose out. “I’m terribly sorry, but we’re _closed_ —”

“And God said, ‘Let the Earth sprout vegetation, plants yielding seed, and fruit trees bearing fruit in which is their seed, each according to its kind, on the Earth.’”

“Not this again.”

The girl was back. This time she was flanked by two top-notch creeps, both in identical white dresses. If anyone were to ask Aziraphale the definition of _creeps_ Azirphale would find these girls and say, “Here you go. These ones right here.”

Crowley, Aziraphale found, had been _actually_ right.

“We wanted to give you this,” the girl handed him another pamphlet.

“I already have one, thank you.” Aziraphale went to shut the door but the girl slotted her foot between the door frame.

“‘Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves. You will know them by their fruits.’”

Aziraphale inhaled. “What did you say?”

“We know who you are, Principality Aziraphale.”

The girl was named The Shepherd and the women were her Flock.

Aziraphale’s face crumpled. “Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos appreciated (⊙＿⊙’)


	5. Chapter 5

Crowley lay in a mosaic of black feathers. He stared at the charred ceiling, yellow eyes glistening in the moonlight. He let out a breath of flame and watched as the paint curled and blackened. The flat smelled of fire and smoke. On the stereo, Ben E. King played.

_And the mountains should crumble to the sea_

_I won't cry, I won't cry, no I won't shed a tear_

_Just as long as you stand, stand by me…_

“Shut it!” The stereo burst into a ball of fire. The track slowed and warbled, contorting into an alien groan as the machine melted into a puddle of plastic. Crowley blessed. He had ruined one of his best soul records. 

_“If you must know...I gave it away.”_

He had been so shocked, standing on that wall watching as the angel looked at him with so much pain. It had been hard for him not to laugh and his best instincts told him to do so. He was a _demon_ after all. ‘Go up there and make some trouble,’ they said. Nothing could be more troubling — more _demonic_ than laughing at an angel.

But what was less angelic than defying God?

Right then Crowley would have died for him. 

A soft ticking punctuated the crackling flame. Crowley got to his feet and shook out his wings. Tucked between the cushions of the sofa was Aziraphale’s pocket watch. 

“Might as well get it over with,” he mumbled. 

A.Z. Fell and Co. was dark when he pulled up to the curb. If Crowley had been observant, he would have noticed the front door was unlocked. Instead, he burst into the shop with his usual carelessness. The shop keeper’s bell jangled in the black.

“I’m just here to give you your pocket watch.” He took a few steps forward. The shop was unusually quiet. Unlike Crowley, Aziraphale had never grasped the nuances of sleep, which he saw as counterproductive; night time was reserved for a good book and a hot cup of tea. 

“I may accept an apology if it’s especially... _apologetic._ ” 

Silence.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley spun around. “Aziraphale?” 

There is a change in the air before a storm hits: a crack of ozone, a spark of electricity. The wind picks up and the clouds roll in. Crowley was standing in the middle, screaming.

“ _Aziraphale!_ ”

Something slipped underneath his boot. He reached down and picked up the familiar piece of paper: BIRCHWOOD FARMS. It turned to ash in Crowley’s hands.

At his worst, Crowley accidentally spread the early seeds of communism. Otherwise, he spent his time as a minor irritant on Earth. But as he careened towards Bromley County, he was going to do something truly, utterly, and despicably evil. He thumped the steering wheel, muttering every blessing he knew.

Of course, Crowley wasn’t the only one going 200 on the A21. Someone had been watching as the demon went from bad to worse and it was on the peck. The Bently had been with Crowley since 1926. It liked to think their relationship was solid, especially after it took Crowley through the end of the world in a ball of molten flame. It didn’t want him to do anything stupid. As it sped across the fields of Birchwood Farms, the Bently decided it had to do something. 

Its brake hit the floor and its tires locked.

“Why’d you stop?” Crowley went for the door but the locks slid down. Odd. He snapped his fingers. When the door stayed firmly in place, Crowley placed his foot on the handle and pulled. “Oh, you think you’re so clever!”

The Bently wasn’t like his plants. He couldn’t bully it into listening.

“You bloody car!”

The radio dial slid side to side.

_Another one bites the dust..._

“I didn’t ask for your opinion!”

Classical Greek philosophers are often touted as the founders of epic poetry. Many are willing to overlook the fact that many of these great poets were incredibly lazy. The term _deus ex machina_ is a Latin phrase that means “god from the machine.” In less eloquent terms, it is a convenient plot device an author can use to save their hero when no other solution is available. 

There was a thump to Crowley’s left. Nestled among the seat cushions lay Aziraphale’s sword. Crowley took it by the hilt, examining the blade. 

Crowley placed a hand on the dashboard. “Sorry about this. There’s no other way.” He closed his eyes and drove the sword through the Bently’s window. He clambered out, shaking bits of glass from his wings. “We’ll talk about this when I get back.”

The Bently lumbered after him.

“No! No! No! Stay here! Bad car!” 

The sword went up in flames, as did every building that came in Crowley’s path. The Bently’s bumper nudged the back of Crowley’s legs, giving a little beep. 

“I’m a little busy!”

And so they went.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“I don’t think you’ve thought this through,” Aziraphale said. “I’m an angel.” 

“That’s what makes your sacrifice all the more righteous.” The Shepherd pressed two fingers against Aziraphale’s forehead. 

The Shepherd hadn’t meant to become a cult leader. She had just sort of...fallen into it. She had worked as a missionary at her local church and after months of doors to the face, she and her partners went to Florida to sell seashell figurines. They were on the streets in a week’s time. Thus, cult.

She was better at selling poisoned vegetables, anyway. 

Aziraphale struggled against his bonds. He hadn’t been tied to a chair since The Reign of Terror and at least then he and Crowley had been on speaking terms. He didn’t enjoy being kidnapped, although he was in a lush greenhouse. Carpets of daisies and delicate verbena blossoms smiled up at him. That part he did enjoy.

“You’re not very nice.” Aziraphale winced. Crowley always knew what to say in these situations. “We will stop you, you know. The Third Beast proved to be no trouble.” His heart sank when The Shepherd threw her head back in laughter. Aziraphale shifted. “No need to be rude.” Now she was just hurting his feelings.

“You think I’m worthy of such a title? We are looking for him to lead us.”

“What?"

The Shepherd raised her arms. “Everything here was made in his image. When he calls upon us, we will unleash disease as you have never seen.”

 _“You stay where you are!”_ A murky light swam across the walls of the greenhouse and the door burst open. Through the wreckage stumbled Crowley, looking worse for wear. His trousers were caked in mud and his forehead glistened with sweat. “I bloody hate that car,” he snarled before the front of the greenhouse exploded, sending the demon tumbling forward. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed.

The Bently gave a jolly honk as Crowley scrambled to his feet. His glasses crunched beneath his boot. “You are going to get it!” He kicked the Bently’s bumper.

“Is that my sword?”

Crowley glanced at the flaming blade. “What? Oh, yeah. That The Beast?” He pointed the sword at The Shepherd. 

“I don’t know. I’m very confused.”

Crowley’s nose wrinkled. “Bit disappointing.” 

“Crowley, your wings are burning!”

Crowley looked over his shoulder. “Huh. They haven’t done that in a while.”

“Does it hurt?”

“A bit.”

The Shepherd had dropped to her knees “Great Adversary.”

Aziraphale tried to wriggle free. “Why do you have my sword?”

“I was going to kill The Beast after I thought it killed _you_ but now she’s just some dirty hippie.”

“Prince of Darkness.” 

The greenhouse was getting unbearingly hot. Aziraphale could see a shimmer of orange lick the plate glass. “Crowley, are we on fire?”

The Fourth Beast was not from Earth, nor sea, nor did it ride a white horse. It was the Serpent of Eden, seeking revenge for the one he cared for most. Through fire, all people of Earth would worship at his feet.

“We have been waiting for you, Master.” The Shepherd was at Crowley’s feet.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale began slowly. “I think you’re The Beast.”

This was news to Crowley, who by all accounts was a nice demon. “What? No!” 

“You should see yourself, dear. You look awfully frightening to the average person.” 

Crowley stretched his wings to their full extent. “It does hurt.” He looked around. “Think I may have set the world on fire.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I’m sure it was an accident.”

“He that is named Dragon…”

“I’m not your bloody Beast!” Crowley shoved The Shepherd away with his foot. 

“But it was foretold!”

“I don’t do as I’m told. That’s the whole point.” He jerked his head. “Get lost.”

The Shepherd scrambled across the floor and out into the night. 

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Aziraphale said as Crowley made his restraints disappear. He wrung his hands. “I’m sorry for everything. I didn’t mean a word.” 

“I lost myself. Sorry, angel. Won’t happen again.” Crowley’s wings had begun to smolder. Thin streams of smoke drifted from his feathers, blanketing the ceiling. The smoke detector jumped into action, yelling at the top of its lungs as the sprinklers burst to life. 

Crowley spat, shaking his head and smoothing down his hair. He turned his face up towards the sky and closed his eyes. Dirt slid from his face in brown rivulets. It dribbled down his neck and chest, soaking into his t-shirt. He opened his eyes. A wing hovered above his head, shielding him from the drops.

The angel’s hair was plastered to his forehead and fat raindrops clung to his eyelashes. “Oh, dear.” Steam had begun to rise from Crowley’s wings. “Are you all right?”

Crowley gave his wings a little shake. “It’s happened before. They’ll grow back.”

“How awful,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley, has the world ended?” He looked at the orange haze outside the greenhouse.

“I suppose so. I feel like a bastard.”

“If it’s part of the Great Plan you can hardly be the one to blame.”

In the 21st century, declarations of love could range from sweet nothings to chargeable vandalism by many municipal governments. And since God prefers high stakes, it usually edges towards the dramatic. The end of the world was a good time for an angel and demon to bear their souls.

“Well, see you later then,” Crowley said.

The Bently couldn’t take it. For almost a decade it had watched these morons tiptoe around each other and it wouldn’t put up with another century of longing glances and lingering touches. The Bently laid on its horn, making the two beings jump. It began to concentrate. Even for a magical car, long-distance calls were a pain.

Signals bounced across the universe, ricocheting across stars and warping between dimensions. They were in the past, the future, disappeared entirely until...

CROWLEY, DARLING, Freddie Mercury crooned.

“I’m sorry, who am I speaking to?” Crowley yelled over the sprinklers.

I AM THE MIGHTY ONE. I AM WHO I AM.

Crowley snapped into his snake form, flopping around in the dirt before he shot up Aziraphle’s leg. He tucked his head beneath the angel’s chin. “ _Daddy?_ ”

YES. YOU MUST PUT AN END TO THE ENDING.

“I’ve been _trying!_ ” Even in the presence of the Lord, Crowley couldn’t help his indignance. Demons, by default, did not respect God. Crowley did, however, respect Sean Connery, who he considered to be the best James Bond.

YOU HAVE NOT. The Bently broke out into a crescendo of drums. 

_Can anybody find me...Oh, you’re my best friend that I’ve ever had…Somebody to..._

The CD player spun out and a burst of sparks filled the car.

WE’RE ALL GOD’S PEOPLE. GIVE FREELY...MEND THE RIFT, DARLING. The Bently’s lights shut off.

Crowley turned to Aziraphale. “He’s not at all what I was expecting if I’m to be perfectly honest.”

Aziraphale clenched his fists, struggling to stand straight under the weight of the snake. “I have to say something.” 

“What?”

“I don’t know how to tell you so I’ll just say it. I’ve loved you for a long time. Almost eighty years. So when you teased me, it really hurt my feelings. There. It’s out.” He could see himself in the serpent’s wide, unblinking eyes. He looked like an idiot.

Crowley flicked out his tongue. It barely brushed against the tip of Aziraphale’s nose. 

“Change back! I can’t see what you’re thinking!” Aziraphale’s cheeks were burning red. Crowley’s face was emotionless, impassive —”

Crowley touched his scaly forehead to the Aziraphle’s, his long, muscular body giving him a gentle squeeze. “Eighty yearsssss?” He watched the angel’s face crumble. “Try _sssssix thoussssand_.”

Aziraphale glowed. “Oh, I suppose that’s all right, then. Really wish you would have said something.” 

Crowley dropped to the ground. His form morphed and shifted until he was looking down at Aziraphale. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, angel. Your demon friend fancies you?’”

“I guess they would have been cross with us.”

“Very.”

Aziraphale looked at his feet. He looked at Crowley. “What now?”

“Dunno.”

Snakes can’t cry. So all Crowley could manage was a pathetic whimper as a plume of white feathers brushed against his cheek and a pair of pink cherubic lips touched his own. Aziraphale smelled like cologne and that terrible mildew stench in the bookshop. It was wonderful. Crowley sighed. 

Suddenly, Aziraphale could feel it. A wave of love engulfed him, warming him from the deep recesses of his soul to the tips of his fingers. 

Storm clouds gathered in the distance. The first drops of holy water fell on the ground, extinguishing the flames. When anyone remembered that October, they would say it had been unusually hot.

It was a nice day. Not every day leading up to it had been nice, but Crowley and Aziraphale had spent them together and _that_ had been nice. The thunderstorm slowly abated, leaving nothing behind but an angel and demon.

It began and ended in a garden. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to upload this chapter several times. I'm so sorry for my subscribers!


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